Fifty Shades of Parody
by jimduchene.blogspot.com
Summary: I've just read the first sex scene between Ana Steele and Christian Grey. It reminds me of MY first time. I was afraid. I was excited. I was alone. Having said that, can someone explain to me how Christian Grey can both "empty" and "pour" himself into her when he was wearing a condom the two times they did it? Just asking.
1. Chapter 1

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair-it looks like a tumbleweed on steroids, only not as well-moisturized. I look at my roommate, the beautiful Katherine Kavanagh. Only she's not so beautiful now. Now, she's in bed, sick as a pig.

Hidden under the blankets, there seems to be an abundance of her. She's sweating more than Rosie O'Donnell's upper lip, and moaning. How can I stay mad at her? Poor baby.

Somehow she talked me into interviewing some super-duper, wowie-zowie, mega-industrialist for the student newspaper, _Mein Kampf. _It's an interview _she _should be doing, but, like I said, she's sickiepoo. I know, because I can see her writhing under the blankets. Her eyes are rolling back in their socket like that little girl in _The Exorcist_, just not as attractive looking. She's my bestest, dearest friend.

God, I hate her.

"Goodbye," I tell her.

"Goodbye," she tells me.

"Goodbye," says a voice from under her blanket.

"Holy fudge," I say, only I don't say fudge.

Christian Grey is the Head Hookah of Grey Enterprises Holdings & Fish Market, Inc. I make it to his headquarters with enough time for a quick stop at Taco Bell. I'm still wiping off the special taco sauce when I walk into the lobby of GREY HOUSE, his 69 story office building.

I'm greeted by Olivia, a young blonde intern seated behind a solid sandstone desk. She's beautiful, in an ugly kind of way.

"And you are..." she asks me.

"Anastasia Steele," I tell her.

"And this concerns..."

"I'm here to see Mr. Grey."

"Can I ask you a personal question, Ms. Steele?" she says, leaning forward confidentially.

"Of course," I tell her.

"Where did you buy your little ensemble?"

"Oh, K-Mart," I tell her. "Why? Do you like it?"

"No, I just want to make sure I don't shop there by mistake."

My confidence immediately deflates, although, to tell the truth, I don't know what it would be like flated.

"Can I get you something?"

"Do you have any Taco Bell?"

"Mr. Grey will see you now," Olivia tells me, and holds the door to Mr. Grey's office open for me. "Do go through."

I get up, and smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, just as a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African American man exits.

OMG! It's _THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!_ He's holding a shiny new penny in one hand and wiping away tears with the other. He's _crying?_ Once he took money out of my wallet and gave it to Olivia, he felt much better, even giving me a smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

I look. He barely left me enough for an Enchirito.

"You don't need to knock," Olivia tells me, counting her cash. "Just go in."

As I walk past, the door closes behind me, catching the heel of my left foot. I stumble forward, hitting my head on a low beam. _Ow! _I put one hand behind my head, rubbing it gingerly, and the other forward to steady myself, accidentally placing it on a wood-burning iron stove. _Hot!_ I quickly lift my hand from the scalding metal, lift it to my mouth, and blow on it. I shuffle backward, and back into a door with a "Wet Paint" sign on it. _Aw, nuts, my navy-blue jacket is ruined!_ As I step forward, the door opens behind me, and an ironing board falls, hitting me on the top of my head. I stumble forward, needing air. I'm at an open window, still blowing on my burning hand, while my other hand rests on the window sill, keeping me balanced. The window closes hard on my one good hand-_Yikes!_-crushing it and trapping it at the same time. I have to use some force to pull it out, and the momentum spins me around making me fall face-first into a wedding cake. _Yum! _Unable to see, I stumble around and step right into a bear trap. _Ouch! _I'm such a nordberg.

I hope I didn't embarrass myself.

"Nonsense," Christian Grey comforts me. "I barely noticed."

When my eyes finally focus, I can see that the great Mr. Grey is pretty young for an old guy. And pretty good-looking to boot. He sees me seeing him.

"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed," I tell him, "so she sent me. I hope you don't mind."

"And you are..."

"Anastasia Steele."

"And this concerns..."

"I have some questions, Mr. Grey." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"I thought you might," he says, deadpan.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?"

'Before every business deal," he confides in me, confidingly, "I stick a shiny new penny up my arse. And then, just before the meeting is to begin, I go to the bathroom and take it out. When I meet my opponent, I _give _him that penny, telling him it's lucky. That way, when we're negotiating, I can never take him seriously knowing that he's handled a penny that's been stuck up my bum."

I was amazed at his business acumen. I look at him. He holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens. My face flushes. My nose runs.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good looks? The way his eyes blaze at me? The size of his feet?

"And once you've beaten your opponent in a bitter beetle business battle, what do you do to, ah, chill out?"

"Chill out? Well, to 'chill out,' as you put it-I climb with the sherpas in Mount Everest. I run with the Tarahumara Indians in Mexico. I watch Oprah reruns. I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Steele, and money gives me class, a lot of class," he says, and blows his nose into the sleeve of my navy-blue jacket. "Ah, excuse me."

_Ew._

There's a knock on the door, and Olivia enters.

"Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea..."

"Olivia."

"If I say it's Andrea, it's Andrea. Please cancel my next appointment."

"Very well, Mr. Grey," Andrea says, then exits, not letting the door hit her where the good Lord split her.

_Crap, crap, and double crap! Where's he going with all this?_

"I'd better leave," I tell him. "I don't want to keep you from anything."

He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, and balances himself on one leg.

"Plus, I do have a long drive," I continue, continuing.

He walks me to the door, still on one leg.

"We have an excellent internship program here," he tells me. Why is he telling me this? Is he offering me a job? "We can always use a good woman who knows her way around a coffee machine."

"Oh, I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, bearing it in mind. "Do you know where the nearest Taco Bell is?"

"Out there," he says, and points out of his office and into the streets. I'm surprised when he follows me out and walks me to the elevator.

"Anastasia," he says as a farewell.

"Christian," I reply.

"Please," he tells me, "call me Mr. Grey."

And mercifully the elevator door closes.

On my nose.


	2. Chapter 2

My heart is pounding.

I never should have had the Heart Attack Grill's two-for-one Lard Special with the free Diet Coke. I don't care _what _the Coca-Cola Company says, I bet there's some empty calories in there somewhere. They don't all dissipate in an effervescent sparkle of fizz once you pop the top like my mother used to tell me.

When the elevator finally spits me out on the first floor with a grunt, I'm more confused than a Hollywood starlet sitting in front of a plate of food.

What the crap had just happened?

On my drive back home, I think about a lot of things. I think about whether there will ever be peace in the Middle East. I think about whether we will ever judge each other by the content of our character, and not the color of our highlights. I think about what I'm going to eat when I get home.

Speaking about getting home...

When I get home Katherine-_Kate_-must still be feeling sick, because she's sitting slumped at the kitchen table, hand to her forehead and moaning.

"I got the interview," I tell her, hoping it will lift her spirits. It does.

"You got the interview!" she says, immediately brightening. "Oh goodie, goodie, goodie! Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie! Right there, right there, right there!"

So I put the digital recorder down in front of her.

"A little bit more to the left," she instructs, and so I do.

She scoops it up in her hands, clutches it to her chest, shuddering. I've never seen her so happy. She's almost convulsing in excitement.

"Okay, well," I tell her, "I've got to go to work, even though I told them I wouldn't be going in."

She shudders a final time in acknowledgement, and grows quiet. She's sad to see me go, I guess.

"Well... goodbye," I tell her.

"Goodbye," she tells me.

A midget strolls cockily out from beneath the kitchen table, flossing his teeth.

"Goodbye," he says.

I make it to work. They're happy to see me.

"You told us you weren't coming in!" Mr. Clayton says. I've worked at Clayton's Hardware & Enema Supplies since I started at UTEP. They love me just like family. "Go back home!"

Oh, I've got so much studying to do for my finals, but first I write an essay for one of my classes. I call it _The Communist Manifesto and Other Decorating Tips_.

I'm back home. Kate's not there. I call my mom. She's not in. I call my dad, and only get his voice mailbox. I call a few more people I know, but they don't answer, either. I finally give 9-1-1 a try.

"Quit calling us!" the emergency-operator teases, playing hard-to-get.

The doorbell rings, and it's my bestest, most dearest gay hispanic friend, Jose, with a bottle of Three Fingers tequila.

"Don't you drink _Jose Cuervo_, my illegal alien friend?" I ask him.

"It's too creepy to put something in my mouth that has my name on it," he explains.

The doorbell rings again. This time it's Nosmo King, my bestest, most dearest gay African-American friend.

"'Nosmo'?" I once asked him. "That's an interesting name. How'd you get it?"

"My mother, when she was giving birth to me, said it was a sign from God. As she was being wheeled into the delivery room, she looked up, and there, just above the door, was the name 'Nosmo King.'"

I remember wiping away a tear from my eye. It was a very touching story, especially since his last name is Jones.

The doorbell rings yet again. When I open the door I see my gay Asian-American friend Kim Jong Eh? (no relation), and my gay Native American friend Dances With Gerbils. They're both my bestest, most dearest friends in all the world.

After a few shots of tequila, they begin to throw a party that I'm not invited to. Suddenly, I'm in the mood for a cucumber salad.

Saturday at the store is going to be a nightmare, especially since it's Tuesday.

"Hey! We told you to..."

"I'll work for free," I say. It seems to pacify them.

"Okay," Mr. Clayton says, happy to have me. "Just stay in the back where the customers can't see you."

I agree, and even promise to buy everyone a pizza later.

"Don't bother," he says. "We can see the results of eating too much pizza."

They're like my second family, always looking out for me.

I'm at the back counter, discreetly eating a _chimichanga_. I glance up and-_crap!_-I find myself trapped in the bold gaze of Christian Grey. I'm like a deer caught in the headlights of an 18-wheeler barreling down the road at it.

Not just crap, but _holy _crap. What the hell is _he _doing here?

"Hello, Mr. Grey," I tell him. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"Yes," he tells me. "For you."

"What can I help you with?"

"I was at a store. It was called Nothing But Lampshades. That was all they sold. Lampshades. But I, Miss Steele, am a man who needs more than lampshades."

"I understand completely," I tell him, not understanding at all.

"Actually, I don't need anything. I was just in the neighborhood, and I wanted to express how much I enjoyed our little interview the other day."

"So did I," I tell him. "I just wish I could have gotten some pictures of you to go with Kate's story."

"Pictures? I'll have my dear friend, Anthony Weiner, send her some. Just give me her cell phone number."

"Gee, thanks," I tell him, thinking how excited Kate is going to be when she gets them.

"_Ana!_"

It was Paul, Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I've known him every since he was molested by his uncle. I had heard he was home from Princeton, where his family tells everybody he's going to college, but is really just a janitor there.

He puts a too-familiar arm around my shoulder, and pulls me close. I can see Mr. Grey's eyes narrow and his face harden from the corner of my eye.

"Er, Mr. Grey... this is Paul. His brother owns this store. Paul... this is Mr. Christian Grey. He owns everything else."

"_Christian_ Grey?" Paul asks.

"Yes," I tell him.

"_The_ Christian Grey?"

"Yes."

"Not Christian Gray, but Christian _Grey?_"

"Yes, yes. Christian Grey. Now get your hand off my ass and say hello."

"Wow," he tells the Master of the Universe. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Mr. Grey answers, his tone clipped and cool. "You can leave."

"Yeah, I can do that," Paul says and disentangles his arm from around me. As he leaves. Mr. Grey eyes him steely as he walks away. Like a predator predatoring his prey, he watches Paul but speaks to me.

"Hmm, I guess I will need some things after all," he says, casually, with an undercurrent of danger.

"Of course," I tell him, "..._Christian_."

"Please... call me Mr. Grey."

I step from around the counter, and bump into our bow rake display. They all come crashing to the concrete floor. I'm surrounded by a sea of rakes. Maybe more like a school of hungry sharks in a sea of concrete. Crap, I'm bad at metaphors.

I cautiously move one foot forward, stepping on the head of a rake. The wooden handle snaps upward fast-_Whack!_-and it hits me smack in the face-"_Ow!" _The force of the blow makes me step back-_Whack!_-and a rake hits me on the _back _of my head-_"Ow!"_ I step forward. _Whack! _I step back._"Ow!" _Forward. _Whack!_ Back. "_Ow!" _

_ Whack! Whack! Whack!_

_ "Ow!" "Ow!" "Ow!"_

"Do you need some assistance, Miss Steele?" Mr. Grey-my hero-asks me.

"No, no," I tell him. "This happens all the time."

In the Gay Mafia, do you think getting "whacked" is a good thing?

_Whack!_ "_Ow!" _

Neither do I.

He buys some rope, duct tape, and a gag.

"For the body in the trunk," he kids, kiddingly. "Do you have any blindfolds?"

"The bandana you bought as a gag can also be used as a blindfold," I say, saving him some money. He may be a billionaire, but I'm sure he didn't get there by being a spendthrift. "Anything else?"

"Yes," he says, looking around. "I will also need some hydrofluoric acid."

"Hydrofluoric acid?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, no," I assure him.

"Along with a plastic container big enough to contain, oh, say, your friend Paul."

"Hmm, I don't know if we have one that big."

"If you don't, then two will do."

"What are you going to put inside them?"

"The acid."

"The _acid?_"

"Yes."

"Any decent acid is gonna eat right through plastic."

"Not hydrofluoric," he assures me. "Mr. White, an old chemistry teacher of mine, once taught me that."

"What kind of plastic, then?"

"Polyethylene. Just look at the bottom for a triangle stamped 'LDPE.'"

_Okay_, I admit to myself. _I like him._

I walk him to the front of the store. At the glass-sliding door, he turns around and faces me, saying nothing. He looks around my place of work a final time.

"This place looks so much different through binoculars," he tells me.

"What?"

"Just kidding," he says, "_Anastasia_."

His tongue caresses my name like it was the last donut at the Krispy Kreme. I don't know what's going to happen next. Is he going to take me in his arms? Kiss me?

He hands me a shiny new penny.

"For luck," he says


	3. Chapter 3

I can't wait. I _have_ to call Kate. She'll be ecstatic. And elated. And enraptured. And other words that begin with e and make me glad I own a Thesaurus.

"Who's this?" she demands when she answers the phone. To the point, as ever.

"Kate!" I squeal. "It's Ana!"

"Who?"

"Ana. Ana Steele."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Ana, your roommate."

"Ana?"

"Yes!" Finally.

"My roommate?"

"Yes!"

"Ana's not home," she cheeches to my chong.

As predicted, when I am finally able to prove my identity by answering a gauntlet of password questions, she is euphoric.

"Wait a minute," she says, cutting me off. "Anthony Wiener just texted me those photographs you were telling me about. I'm looking at them now... _ewww!_"

"What's wrong?"

"Let's just say we'll need some new pictures."

Now it was _my_ turn to be excited. This means I'll get to talk to Christian Grey _again_, and maybe even _see_ him again.

I immediately call Jose, who conveniently happens to be a professional photographer when he isn't busy rolling drunks outside of the Old Plantation, a local gay bar in Downtown El Paso.

"Who are they gonna call?" he once justified his actions to me. "The police? Don't make me laugh. Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! I SAID DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!"

So I call him.

"Ana who?" he says.

When we finally get everything straightened out, he's excited too.

"Have you _seen_ the pictures Kate just sent me? Boy, am I in the mood for a cucumber salad."

In the end, I have to talk him into taking the new photos of Mr. Grey for Kate and myself.

"Why would I want to do something that so obviously would be good for my career?" his enquiring mind wants to know.

"How about for a shiny new penny..."

"Don't make..."

"...that's been up Christian Grey's oompa-loompa?"

Jose squeals with delight, and then I hear a muffle sound. I guess Jose is playing hide-the-gerbil with his phone again.

I take that as a yes.

Now, all I have to do is call Mr. Grey. I dial 4-1-1.

"This is Information," the operator flirted.

"Yes," I tell him. "I'd like the personal number of Christian Grey the billionaire."

"Hold please." There's a brief pause. When he comes back, do I detect a hint of jealousy in his voice? "His number is..."

I've wasted so much time on the phone that my shift is over, and I go to clock out. I don't see Paul on my way out. In fact, I haven't seen him for a while. I wonder where he is?

Well, I can't worry about it now.

It's the next day, and we're at the Old Plantation waiting for the Man of the Hour to arrive.

Kate pulled some strings and other body parts, and we're using the special Smegma Room. It's a lot nicer than it sounds.

It's me, Kate, Jose, and Travis. Travis is a friend of Jose who I'm just now introducing for no apparent reason.

The time we spend waiting gives us an opportunity to get to know one another better.

"You know, Jose," I say, "in all the time I've known you, I _still_ don't know what your last name is?"

"It's Schwartz," he says, proudly.

"_Schwartz?_" Kate interjects. "What kind of a name is 'Schwartz' for an illegal aliean from Mexico?"

"It's my given name," he tells her.

"Give it back," she tells him, rudely.

As I'm removing Jose's hands from around Kate's neck, the fatally seductive Christian Grey makes his grand entrance, fashionably late, like Kate's period.

Kate immediately takes control of the whole affair.

"Here," she tells him, "put on this hat. And these shoes. And this red rubber ball. _On your nose!_ What do you think I'm talking about?"

When we're done, we're all more tired than Oprah Winfrey's excuses for not marrying Steadman.

Not Christian Grey, though. He looks as fresh and energetic and ready to conquer the world as if he just graduated from Clown College.

"Miss Steele," he says, looking not just into my eyes, but into my _soul_. My knees grow weak. "Would you care to join me for coffee?"

Care to? _Care_ to? I would _love _to! But...

"I'm afraid I can't," I offer, weakly. "I have to drive my three huge friends and all this photography equipment back in my tiny little Volkswagon Beetle."

I wave my hands toward them like a Sesame Street muppet.

"No problem," he tells me. "_Crockett!_"

From out of nowhere, his driver/slash/bodyguard/slash/optometrist is standing next to him.

"Yeah, pal?" he says. He's wearing an Armani sports jacket with a powder-blue t-shirt and white linen pants. Slip-on loafers, no socks. His hair is more suited to the beaches of Miami, not Downtown El Paso.

Mr. Grey waves a hand dismissively in the direction of my friends.

"Take care of these three, would you?"

"Whatever you say, pal," Crockett says, and pulls a gun out from beneath his jacket. I think it's a Bren Ten, a stainless-steel handgun manufactured by Dornaus & Dixon.

"No, no," Mr. Grey corrects him gently, stroking the barrel of the gun with the tips of his long fingers as if it was a... um... ah... well... something longer than it is wide, if you get my drift. "I mean, take them home."

Mr. Grey promises to take me to a world-famous restaurant. And he does. McDonald's.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asks, like the gentleman that he is.

I sit in the chair he offers, and avert my eyes, looking at the top of the table as he walks to the counter. I don't get it. Is this a _date_ or what? I eat it anyway. I don't know what it is, but it's definitely not a date. Maybe a fig.

He comes back carrying a McDonaldland tray. On it is coffee for him, and two Big Macs, a large order of fries, plus two-for-one-dollar apple pies, and a cup with hot water for me.

"I asked for hot tea," I tell him in my small voice. My subconscious rolls her eyes at my meekness. They roll under a refrigerator where she can't get them.

"And hot tea you shall have, my dear," he says as he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a teabag of Earl Grey tea still in its packaging envelope. Say what you will about Christian Grey, the man has class.

I pick up the teabag, put it in my purse (for later), and take a sip of the hot liquid in front of me.

"I like my tea weak," I explain.

"I guess you do," he says, eyeing me appreciatively. "Tell me about yourself, Miss Steele. I want to know all about you."

When I wake him up twenty minutes later, I'm done with my appetizer and he's ready to leave.

We walk down the street, and stop at the corner of Norfolk and Way for a red light. We're waiting for the little green man to show up. _Little green man? _What the heck am I talking about? I have no idea.

Embarrassed with myself, I turn to run away, and smack headfirst into a lamppost. I bounce back into Christian's strong arms, thinking, "It's not the heat, it's the stupidity."

I look up into his eyes, and he looks down into mine. I hope there's nothing dangling from my nostrils.

His are immaculate.

_Holy crap!_ Is he gonna kiss me, or what?


	4. Chapter 4

"I never want to see you again in my life," he tells me, his eyes soft but hard, his voice kind but cruel, his arms strong, but also letting me drop to the concrete sidewalk.

I bounce back up and wiggle my way back into his arms like an intestinal parasite. He tries to soften the blow.

"It's not you, it's me," he says. "Okay, it's you, but it's also me. But just a little bit me. In fact, my part in it is so small that, statistically speaking, it's not me at all, but you. Since I'm a gentleman, however, I'll include myself. (But it's not me.)"

I make it back to the apartment I share with Kate, and she immediately sees that I'm crying.

"Ana! What's wrong? What did he do? Did he take you to bed and call you by _my _name?"

"Worse," I tell her.

"He called you by _Jose's_ name?"

"Worse than that. I was ready to give him my most precious gift, my celebrity nose-hair collection, but he told me... he told me..."

"That you're fat?"

"No."

"That you're ugly?"

"No."

"That you're fat and ugly?"

"No, he told me he didn't want to see me again. _Waaah!_"

"That _jerk!_" Do you know what you need? You need to go out and get drunk."

"But we have finals."

"Don't worry about your finals. My dad has already bought my grades for this semester, and I'm sure he'll do the same for you. _Of course_," she says seductively, giving me a conspiratorial wink, "he may want _something_ in return."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says, looking around the room, feigning innocence. "Something like... _your celebrity nose-hair collection!_"

We're at the Old Plantation again. We come here all the time to dance. There's nothing but guys here, so you would think a girl could get lucky once in awhile, but I'm the kind of girl who couldn't get lucky in a men's prison with a fist full of pardons.

You know who's here, too? Sure, you do. Come on, take a guess. That's right... Jose. He comes by our table with a pitcher of margaritas.

"By the time we're done with you tonight, honey," he says, "you'll be over that Christian Grey character."

I only _wish_ I could be over Christian Grey. I wish I could be _all _over him.

"I don't know how you can tell me that with a straight face," I say.

"Oh, honey, I'm gay," he says back. "I _never_ say anything with a straight face."

We drink, we laugh, we drink some more. All that booze goes to my head, and somehow makes it's way further south. I feel a heaviness in the lower part of my digestive tract and excuse myself to go to the little girl's room.

I go into a stall and make myself at home. My cell phone rings just as I'm getting in the mood. I look to see who it is... _OMG!_ It's _him! _How did he get my number? I guess when you're a billionaire you can get anything you want. Besides that, I gave it to him.

"Hello," I say, my voice a whisper.

"Ana?" he says in that magnificent voice of his. "Is this you? You sound like you're talking in an echo chamber."

"Um..." I say, "it must be the connection."

I shift uncomfortably on the seat.

"What was _that?_" he asks. Great, he's rich, he's handsome, AND he's got super hearing.

"What was what?"

"That noise I just heard."

"What noise? I didn't hear any noise."

"Is there a thunderstorm where you're at?"

"No, no. I'm inside, as a matter of fact. It's the connection, I tell you."

Just then, the toilet flushes in the stall next to mine.

"Uh... gotta go," I say, and hang up. My subconscious looks at me in disbelief.

She's wearing a gas mask.

No sooner do I exit the bathroom, than Jose accosts me aggressively in the hallway. To get away from him, I step outside the building where there are no witnesses.

"Ana!" he calls after me. "Ana! Don't go. _Cuando para mucho mi amore de felice corazon._"

I stop. It's serious when he starts speaking that _no-hablo-engles_ crap.

"Okay, okay, Jose... what do you want?"

He gets up close to me, our bodies barely not touching each other. I can feel the warmth of the dance floor on his skin. I smell the margarita on his breath. His face is nearly touching mine.

"Ana," he tells me, 'I don't know how to tell you this, but I've been wanting to tell you for the longest time."

"Tell me what?"

"It's just that, ah, well..."

"Come on, Jose, just spit it out," I say, spitting on the sidewalk to encourage him.

"We've been friends a long time, and, I, well, ah... _I've started writing a humor blog, and I want you to read it!_" he finally says, it all comes gushing out at once like something that gushes out really quick and all at once.

So, _that's_ what it is. Man, I can't even go to _Walmart_ without running a gauntlet of people wanting me to read their blogs. Even my subconscious has hidden away, not wanting _his _subconscious to show her his latest story.

"No," I tell him. "I can't."

"Come on, Ana," he pleads.

"No, really."

"Please, Ana, _carino_."

"You won't respect me if I do."

"I'll respect you even more if you do."

"Please, Jose. Don't force me."

"Your lips are saying no, but your eyes are saying yes."

"No."

"You know you want to."

"Jose... no.. please."

"You'll like it, I promise."

"THE LADY SAID NO!"

"Holy moly!" I say, only I don't say "moly."

It's Christian Grey, and he's _here!_

Jose puts his blog back in his pants, and disappears so fast you would have thought that Immigration just showed up.

Christian watches Jose furiously as he leaves. He chants, "Attica! Attica!" at him, his fist pumping dramatically in the air like Al Pacino in _Dog Day Afternoon_. I guess Mr. Grey must have been out conducting important business with Willie Nelson when he called me, because the wrinkly old unbathed-looking country outlaw is standing just behind him. He has Grey's back. Maybe, when he's done, he'll even give it back. Hmm, if I didn't know it was Willie Nelson, I could swear it was just some random homeless guy off the street.

Christian looks magnificent. He's wearing a three-piece white suit made from the finest Italian polyester money can buy. The buttons to his black _faux_-silk shirt are undone, showing off an impressive gold chain with a large religious medallion dangling in the front framed by an expanse of hairy chest. His black platform shoes glisten like a sparkly vampire in the evening light. His hair is combed back like greased lightning, ready to fight... or to make love.

Mr. Grey has something else in mind.

He grabs my hand hard, almost hurting me, and drags me back into the club. As if on cue, the DJ starts playing "You Should Be Dancing" by the Bee Gees. The crowded dance floor parts like Moses and the Red Sea. Christian spins me around furiously, and then suddenly stops, one hand pointing in the air, and the other on his hip. I can only stand back in my red dress and look at him in awe.

Oh, if I could only describe to you how beautifully he danced that night, but that would take some real talent, so I won't. After he finishes his solo routine down the dance floor and back up, he takes me by the hand and starts to spin me. Spinning and spinning. Faster and faster. I'm having such a good time I start to throw up. I look like a lawn sprinkler, shooting out vomit on the crowd. Not all of the crowd, mind you. Just the lucky few who happen to be standing closest to us.

"We're leaving," he tells me. _Jeez_, doesn't anybody ever _ask_ anybody any more?

I look for Kate. I see her macking on Willie Nelson on the dance floor. If I know Kate, she's going to make his blue eyes cry in the rain, if you get my drift.

"Look," I tell Mr. Grey, nodding my head toward the lusty couple. "Kate and your friend Willie Nelson won't even know we've left."

"Who?" Christian asks, looking in the direction I'm indicating.

"Your friend. The guy Kate's practically having sex with on the dance floor. Willie Nelson."

Christian turns back, and we start heading toward the door.

"That's not Willie Nelson," he tells me.

The information makes my head swim, and I can feel the floor rising up to meet my face.

"Fudge!" I hear Mr. Grey say.

Only he doesn't say "fudge."


	5. Chapter 5

I'm having a wonderful dream.

In it, I'm sleeping and dreaming that I'm asleep. I can't wait to wake up, because, when I do, I'll be triply refreshed. (And, yes, I did just make up the word "triply.") In my dream, I see my subconscious. She's snoring like a pig.

Christian Grey walks into the room, and I rouse from my slumber. I can't believe how comfortably I slept, but then I'm used to falling asleep in strange places. Mr. Grey-hair wet, skin glistening with beads of water-has just gotten out of the shower. He's still wearing the red rubber ball. Only not on his nose.

I yawn and stretch. Oh my gosh! I'm completely naked underneath the silk sheets!

"Did I...?" I ask, seductively.

"No," he answers.

"Did you...?" I ask, accusingly.

"No."

"Did we...?" I ask, disappointedly.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," he laughs, classily adjusting the ball. "I was there."

"I mean, I'm completely naked. Did you do that?"

"Did I do what?" he asks.

"Take off my clothes and put me to bed."

"No. That was Dobby, my manservant. _He_ put you to bed."

"And where did _you_ sleep?" I ask, hopefully.

"In the same bed, with you," he tells me, matter-of-factly.

_In the same bed?_

Jeez, you would think a nice place like Motel 6 would have a suite with a second bedroom. I can't believe we spent the whole night in the same bed and didn't have sex. What were we? Married?.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says, asking me a question.

I nod.

"How can these chapters be so long when nothing ever happens in them?"

I have no answer.

We sit for breakfast. I'm famished, but I eat lightly, not wanting to seem like a glutton.

A full ham later, we're ready to leave. I dab daintily at the corners of my mouth with one corner of tablecloth.

"Even though it was the middle of the night," he was explaining to me, "and the stores were all closed, I sent Dobby out to buy you a choice of something non-vomity to wear. It's on the bed. Take your pick"

I look. As if by magic, the bed has already been made and two beautiful outfits are delicately laying on top. One is a catholic schoolgirl's uniform, and the other is a thong.

I choose the schoolgirl's outfit. I peek at the label. Oooh, it's from the Rosanne Barr collection. It fits perfectly.

He opens the front door. My parents are on the other side.

"Mom! Dad!" I say, surprised. "I thought you were dead!"

"We only wish we were," they say, eyeing my outfit.

Once inside the elevator, Mr. Grey gives me a hungry look.

"There's something about you, Miss Steele," he says, "but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Well... maybe if you stood closer," I suggest, and with that he ravages me like the ravaging ravenger that he is.

His strong hands grab my head like a vise, and lifts my lips up to meet his. His talented hips press the going down button, but I don't take the hint. His flatulent foot holds the elevator door open, and a stern-looking nun walks into the cramped space at the last second.

I open one eye, and peek at my parents. What could they possibly be thinking about our lustful indiscretion?

_They're busy making out with each other!_

Is _tha_t what we look like?

_ Ewww!_

"What is it about elevators?" Christian asks the nun, as the elevator comes to a stop. She shrugs her shoulders.

The doors open, and his parents are standing on the other side.

"Mumsie! Dadsie! I thought you were dead!" he says, surprised. He disentangles himself from me, and gives them a big-boy hug.

"I only wish I was," his mother says, checking me out.

"Nice thong," his father says.

I can't believe it. Kate and Jose are here, too. They are both dressed in beautiful satin bridesmaid dresses.

"How was Willie Nelson?" I ask her with a sarcastic grin.

"It wasn't Willie Nelson," she tells me, sticking out her tongue and not in the fun way. She nods toward Jose.

"Dreamy," he says.

The biggest surprise of all is Father Pelado, my old neighborhood priest. I haven't seen him in years. Ever since he excommunicated me for boring him with my confession. I fondly remember the enthusiasm he use to show when it was time to feed the altar boys their communion wafers back in the rectory with the lights off to make it more spiritual.

I turn to Christian.

"How?" I ask him, stunned. "How did...?"

He puts a finger to my lips, silencing me. It smells like teen spirit.

"Will you marry me?" he says, getting down on one knee. But not in the fun way.

"Christian," my voice breaks, "I am near tears. I don't know what to say."

"Please," he says, "call me Mr. Grey. Now, will you? Will you?"

"Will you ever wake up?" Mr. Grey is saying as I wake with a start. I'm laying in his bed, naked underneath the silk sheets. Christian Grey is standing there, still wearing the red rubber ball.

Only not on his nose.


	6. Chapter 6a

Christian closes the passenger-side door to "the best damn Yugo money can buy."

And what a magnificent beast it is! It has _four _tires, all black. The front windshield is transparent so you can _see _through it. It also has a rear-view mirror and _two_ doors, with front seats that can be moved forward to allow access to the rear seat where he has me laying face-down with my wrists lovingly tied to my ankles behind my back, shaping me into a human triangle. My mouth is duct-taped "for safety."

Is that Paul's muffled voice I hear coming from the trunk. No, that would be silly.

The duct-tape eventually comes loose, another benefit of having an oily complexion, and I'm able to speak through it, half on and half off.

"Nice song," I sputter through the tape as it playfully flutters in and out of my mouth like a lover. I'm rocking gently forward and backward with every press of the gas pedal or brake.

"You like it?" Christian smiles, liking that I like it. "It's the band Southern Culture On The Skids." He thoughtfully checks on me in that conveniently located rear-view mirror I mentioned before. "Don't try to get up," he says. "We're still playing Don't-Let-The-Public-See-You-In-My-Car."

I listen to the words of the song. They're like poetry. Poetry written just for me.

_Well, she ain't good-looking_

_but I ain't that smart,_

_but that ol' woman_

_done stole my heart._

Is he trying to send me a message?

_Yes, we ain't got much,_

_but we got one another,_

_and when she pulls out them choppers,_

_she reminds me of mother._

Uh... maybe not.

_So put your teeth up on that window sill._

_Tell the neighbors to let us be._

_Oh, can't they see, __that we're in love._

_That we're in love._

_ Dang that Christian Grey_, I think to myself, only I don't think "dang." He drives me crazy constantly sending me these mixed signals.

"Do you enjoy the classics?" he asks, interrupting my revery. Reverie. Um... thoughtful contemplation.

"The classics?" _The classics?_

"Yes, the classics."

"I don't know," I admit, embarrassed by my lack of class and worldliness.

"If you're good, I'll introduce you to a great singer I'll never forget. Johnny, no, make that _Jimmy _Soul. You should listen to 'Happy for The Rest Of Your Life'."

"Really? Why?"

"You just should."

We're interrupted by the sound of his cell phone ringing through the car's speakers. He presses a button on the steering wheel, and a voice speaks. I guess when you're a billionaire your life is a constant stream of interrupting phone calls.

"No, thank you," he tells the caller, "I'm quite happy with my cell phone service," and hangs up.

He looks back at me apologetically.

"I'm sorry," he says. "when you're a billionaire, your life is a constant stream of interrupting phone calls."

He drives, and I'm just enjoying our opportunity for small talk.

"Yes," he tells me, "it's a dog-eat-dog world, and I _love_ the taste of dog. It's like the old saying: 'The enema of my enemy is my friend.' "

"Enemy," I tell him.

"What?"

"The _enemy _of my enemy is my friend."

He chuckles to himself, and lifts one sarcastic eyebrow in a John Belushi impersonation.

"If you say so," he says. "If you say so."

He grows quiet, thinking. What might be going through that beautiful head of his I'll never know.

"So, you're telling me and everybody else who can read that you've _never_ been kissed?" he says.

"That's right," I tell him. "Never."

"And no one's _ever_ held your hand?"

"Once, when I was a little girl, I tried to hold my mother's hand, but she wanted to wait until we got to know each other better."

He's shaking his head. I look at my subconscious. _She's _shaking her head, too. No, wait. That's just an epileptic attack. My subconscious will do _anything_ for a little bit of attention.

What the heck... so will I.

"Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie... I'm a virginian."

"WHAT THE ...!" Mr. Grey says, only he doesn't say "...!"

He slams on the brake-_hard!_ The car lurches to a stop. I jerk forward, bounce off the front seats, and land back in my original position.

"You're a _virginian?_"

"Yes," I admit, sheepishly. I've just learned, honesty is overrated.

"You haven't done the oingo-boingo?"

"No."

"Made the beast-with-two-backs?"

"No."

"Been given the ol' slippity-slip?"

"No."

"Served anybody the poor-man's-caviar?"

"No, no, No, NO, _NO!_"

I'm on the verge of tears.

Mr. Grey tries to stifle his laughter, but it comes out in a spray of spit and goobers.

"Ana, sweet Ana," he comforts me. "I'm not laughing _at_ you, I'm laughing _with _you. Okay, I _am_ laughing _at _you, but I'm also laughing because it reminds me of something that happened when I was on Spring Break in Pensacola."

"Florida?"

"No, the soft drink. Anyway, as I was walking along the beach I came across a beautiful young girl, all alone, without even any arms or legs to keep her company."

"She didn't have any arms or legs?"

"That's correct. And the poor dear was crying. All by herself.

" 'What's the matter, miss?' I asked her. 'Why are you crying?'

"She sobbed even harder.

" 'I'm crying because, since I have no arms or legs, I've never been hugged,' she told me.

"So I kneeled close to her and hugged her tightly.

" 'Now you've been hugged,' I told her.

"But she was _still_ crying.

" 'Why are you _still_ crying?' I asked her.

" 'Because,' she said, 'since I don't have any arms or legs, I've never been _kissed_.'

"So I scooped her up in my arms and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

" 'Now you've been kissed," I told her.

"But this only made her cry _harder_.

" '_Jeez!_' I said. 'Didn't I just hug you and kiss you? What is it _now?_'

"Between sobs, she admitted her deepest, darkest secret.

" 'Because I have no arms or legs, I've never been _screwed_.'

"I'll always remember her blue, no, make that _brown _eyes. I was still holding her in my arms, so, in an act of compassion... I_ threw her into the ocean!_

" '_Now_ you're screwed!' I called after her.

"I like to think that, as she went under, she was grateful."

His eyes grew distant, lost somewhere in his memories of the past, and again he grew quiet and thoughtful.

He pulls up outside my duplex. And walks me to the front door. We make plans to go out later. And he leaves.

I'm sure it's just by accident that he forgets to untie me.


	7. Chapter 6b

When I finally make my way into my duplex I fully expect to see not-Willie-Nelson, but the surprising Kate Kavanaugh manages to surprisingly surprise me one again.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in," I say, and then stop in my tracks. There are two strange Asian men sitting at the table eating the breakfast of champions. From the bathroom, I can hear some strange noises. I guess Kate ate a bad clam.

"Who are you?" I asked the one who was obviously in charge.

"That is correct," he answered.

"What is correct?"

"I am Hu."

"That's what _I'm _asking."

"Asking what?"

"Who you are."

"That is correct."

"What is correct?"

"Hu I am."

"I don't understand."

"Hu is my name."

" '_What_ is my name?' "

"What?"

"You mean, 'what' is your name. Not 'who.' "

"My name is Hu, not What."

"That doesn't even make sense. You should learn how to speak English."

"Yu speak English," he says, pointing to his friend.

"Yes," his friend says.

"That's not you," I correct him. "That's _him. He_ speaks English."

"Him not he, him Yu."

"No, he's not."

"He not Yu?"

"No, _I'm _'you.' "

"You're Yu?"

"Yes," I say, pointing to myself. "Me. _Me!_"

He points to his friend.

"Yu 'he'?" he says, and looks at me for confirmation.

"That's right," I say, nodding my head.

He points at me.

"You 'Yu'?"

"_Now_ you've got it," I say, encouraging him.

He then points to himself.

"And me Hu."

I slap my hand down hard on the kitchen table.

"And _that's _what I'm trying to find out!"

Fortunately, that's when Kate finally comes out of the bathroom and straightens the whole thing out. She tells me that once she found out she wasn't diddling with the real Willie Nelson, she dumped that homeless guy like he was, well, homeless. _And that's_ when she picked up China's President Hu, who was in the country to ignore President Obama.

She took him home, and had wild Asian sex with him.

"He was insatiable," she tells me.

"Who?"

"That's right."

After they were done, he-Hu-went into the bathroom, and came out a minute later, ready for some more action. This happened five more times. They'd have sex. He'd go into the bathroom. And then he'd come out, raring to go _another_ time. And another time. And another time. And another time. And another.

Finally, _she _had to go to the bathroom, and _that's _where she discovered the six Chinese nationals who had snuck in the bathroom window the original Hu had opened when he first went in there.

I look at Hu. He's nodding in agreement, proud of himself.

"Mr. Chinese President," Kate tells him, pointing at me, "_this _is my friend Anastasia."

"_Anastasia?_" he asks, his eyes widening, which isn't an easy thing for him to do.

"Yes," I confirm. "Anastasia."

"Oooh," he says. "What a funny name."


	8. Chapter 6c

I'm at Clayton's, bored out of my mind. There's a ton of stuff to do, but I just don't feel like doing any of it. Kate calls that Snagged-Me-A-Rich-Man-itis.

I had told her of our plans to go out later.

"Don't forget the way to a man's heart," she reminded me.

"His stomach?" I offered, hopefully.

"Further south," she corrected.

My boss, Mr. Clayton-the owner of the store and my friend Paul's uncle-asks me if I know where he is.

"You're standing right in front of me," I answer.

"Not me, you idiot. _Paul!_ Have you heard from him?"

"Well, I thought I heard him yelling for 'hep' from the trunk of Christian Grey's car, but why would he be in Christian Grey's trunk and why would he be yelling 'hep'? What does 'hep' even mean?"

We both get a hearty chuckle out of my ignorance.

Crockett is waiting for me when I finally clock out and leave the hardware store. He's supposed to drive me to Christian's office "or die trying."

Thanks to Kate, I'm ready for whatever's about to happen. Besides being groomed and deloused to within an inch of my life, she also made me do a short line of a white powdery substance "for energy."

"What is it?" I asked her.

"Nose candy," she answered.

Oh, goody... I like candy.

And then she had me take a few puffs from a hand-rolled cigarette "to take the edge off."

"What is it?"

"Herb."

Besides their various medicinal properties, herbs are also a nice way to season your food without using salt. Salt is _poison!_ If you don't believe me, just ask Lot's wife.

"Here, take this," she said, handing me a pill. "It'll keep you from getting the munchies and give you _additional _energy."

"What is it?"

"Speed," she said.

_Speed?_

Only my _favorite _movie of all time. What's good enough for Sandra Bullock...

"And for that additional energy, take this," she said, handing me _another _little pill. "It's a 'lude."

"Allude to what?"

"Exactly."

She waited a few minutes, then...

"How do you feel?"

"Totally sober."

"Good," she said, and handed me a little blue pill.

"And what's _this?_" I asked her.

"Insurance."

Once I'm at Christian's office at the top of the building, we immediately catch the elevator down to the first floor.

"Where are we going?" I ask him.

"Someplace special," he says.

We step off the elevator-_What is it about elevators?_-walk out of the building, and step into the limousine I arrived in. Crockett holds the rear door open for both of us and accidentally slams it shut on my hand.

"Sorry, ma'am," he apologizes, and then does it again.

I don't care. I'm in love.

"Where are we going?" I ask Christian again.

"You'll see."

Crockett drives us to the back of the building, where the prickly Mr. Grey's personal helicopter sits on his private helipad. I look up at Christian perplexed.

"Where are we going?" I ask a final time.

"Shut your pie hole."

We climb into the helicopter, and, as Christian straps me in, his hand "accidentally" brushes against my breast.

"I wish they were bigger," I admit to him.

"What?" he says. He seems honestly confused about my confession.

"My breasts. I wish they were bigger."

"Try rubbing toilet paper on them."

"Toilet paper? Does that really work?"

"Why not? Look what it did to your bottom."

As it turns out, the hand belongs to Crockett. I accidentally sat on him. Silly me, that's how I lost my cat.

Mr. Grey straps himself in next as a voice comes over the helicopter's radio.

"Ground control to Major Tom," the voice says.

I look at Christian in surprise, and mouth the words, _Major Tom?_ He shrugs sheepishly. Who knew he was into Bowie? What a freak!

After a gentle reminder to take our protein pills and put our helmets on, ground control okays us for take-off. As I feel the ground move away from us, it reminds me of Chuck Norris. Did you know that when Chuck Norris does a push-up, he doesn't lift himself away from the Earth, he pushes the Earth away from _himself!_

That's a _fact!_

The helicopter goes up, up, and lands on a helipad _at the top_ of the building.

Heli_crap! _

"Weren't we just here?"I ask him.

"The rich are a curious bunch," he explains. "We all have our quips and quirks, our odds and ends, our abbotts and costellos." But apparently no common sense. "Why sit when you can stand? Why stand when you can walk? Why walk when you can drive? Why drive when you can fly?"

I look at my inner goddess. She fell asleep during his monologue. I wake her up.

"Hey! Where's my subconscious?" I ask her.

"She gave me five bucks to take her place once your boyfriend started talking."

Lucky her.

"And this, Ana, is my Batcave," he says leading me back inside the building, and dang if we don't walk into a room that looks _exactly_ like Batman's Batcave.

_There's _the cap and cowl. _There's_ the giant penny. _There's _the mechanical dinosaur. _There's _the giant joker card. It's _exactly _like the comic book. Aw... and _there's _a cute little kitten dressed in a Batcat costume.

"That's Fluffy," Christian tells me. "The only thing I've ever loved."

"Well, riddle me this, Christian," I say. "Am I gonna get lucky here or what?"

I'm surprised by my boldness, but, let's face it, I'm a 21-year-old virginian whose lower extremities haven't been filled since I accidentally sat on my cat.

Mr. Grey is surprised, too. He hands me several pages of paper-a contract-and asks me to sign my name at the bottom. I don't bother reading what it says, and sign _My Name _where it indicates.

"Now, come to mama!" I say, opening my arms and shimmying my shoulders as I waddle toward him seductively.

"Not so fast," he says, giving me a loving shove back.

I bump into the giant penny. It falls over, tears the huge joker playing card in two, and lands on the cat.

OMG! _Fluffy! _

I look frantically at my inner goddess. Her eyes are wide and her jaw just hit the floor. She wakes my subconscious up, gives her her five dollars back, makes like an amoeba, and splits!

Fluffy _can't_ be dead, can she?

"Meow!" comes a plaintive cry from under the giant penny. Oh, thank Goobers... Fluffy's ALIVE!

Relieved, I put a hand on the mechanical dinosaur to steady myself, and that causes it to take one giant step forward.

_On the penny!_

"YEOW!"

_Splat!_

"Fluffy? Fluffy?"

Thankfully, Christian has his back to me. He's moved on to talking about onions and doesn't notice. I have to distract him. So...

"What do you mean 'not so fast'?" I say, feigning anger.

"I mean, why hurry? We have all night and so many pages to fill. Besides, we have to go over the Do's and Don'ts."

"The Do's and Don'ts?"

"Yes, the Do's and Don'ts. The birds and bees. The simons and garfunkles. The things you'll _do_ because I want you to, and the things you _don't_... unless I tell you to."

"That sounds fair."


	9. Chapter 7a

The first thing I notice is the smell: broccoli. I never should have eaten at the House of Broccoli for lunch before our first date.

Christian leads me through a corridor away from the Bat-Cave. At the end of it is a door. He opens it. I try to peek through, shivering in antici..._payshun_.

Hmm... another door.

Beyond that one is an aperture, after the aperture, an egress. Once through the egress, we come upon-not a door-but a gate. He opens the gate, and, once through it, he bends down and opens a hatch on the floor, like the one in _Gravity_, but with oxygen. Through the hatchway, I see an opening. But an opening to what? I have no idea, but I must find out.

"Christian! Where are you taking me?" I ask him, putting away my thesaurus.

"Did you have broccoli for lunch?"

I nod.

"Jeez," he says, holds his nose, and enters the portal.

I follow him into a large room. It smells of oak and leather. The smell is overpowering, like a bathroom over-sprayed with air freshener. Um, not that I would know why anyone would need to over-spray a bathroom with air freshener.

I would describe the furniture decorating this room, but writing's hard work. When you combine a lack of imagination with a lack of gumption, all you're going to get is a lack of description.

I look on his bookshelf. Hmm.. _The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty _trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure. I look at his DVD collection. _Nine & 1/2 Weeks_, with Kim Bassinger and Mickey Rourke back when he used to bathe. Something familiar about all that, but I can't quite make the connection. My attention is diverted when I see...

In the middle of the room is a bed. A big bed. A _huge_ bed. Round, like the one in the master bedroom of the Playboy mansion, except without the 90-year-old horny guy in it.

On the bed, I see something. I walk over and pick it up. It's small, and fits easily in my hand. It has a thin leather handle about eight inches long. Kate tells me eight inches are good, but she won't tell me why. At one end of the handle is a flat square, maybe four inches by four inches, also made of leather.

Christian is eyeing me intently.

"It's called a fly-swatter," he says, his voice quiet and soft. "It amuses me to see how quickly one's skin turns pink after the first slap."

"I don't understand," I tell him. "You... _hit_ people?"

"I hit women."

"And they _let _you."

"Of course they let me... _I'm rich!_"

"And they _like_ it?"

"_I _like it, and, in the end, isn't that what's important?"

"Does it... _hurt?_"

"Not a bit." He thought about what he just said. "Um, you _were_ talking about _me_, weren't you? Because it sure does hurt the other person... _a lot_."

"And where do I fit into all this, Christian?"

Christian pauses. Thinks. And then says, "I... want you to be... my... girlfriend."

"You're _girlfriend?_ Aren't you too old to have a girlfriend?"

"And aren't you too old to have never been kissed?"

I don't answer. He takes my hand and leads me to the bed.

"But I won't hurt you, Ana," he promises, and I believe that promise. If there's one thing you can believe in from a guy who's trying to get you into a round bed, it's his promise.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm glad you asked. This room-_this bed_-is yours... if you want it. You can decorate it however you like."

"Can I change the color?"

"No."

I think about that. And then it hits me.

"You want me to _move in?_"

"Of course not, Ana. Don't make me laugh. Ah, ha, ha, ha! I SAID DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!" He scrapes something from the bottom of his shoe. "No, Ana, sweet Ana. What I want is for you to be at my beck and call. When I crook my finger, I want you to run. When I say jump, I want you to ask me 'How high?' "

I _knew _it. He _does_ like me!

"How many women?" I blurt. Darn that broccoli.

"How many women what?"

"How many women have you... done this to?"

"Done what to?"

"Whatever it is you're talking about?"

"What am I talking about?"

"Well, I assume you want me to do something?"

"Do what?"

"_That's_ what I'm trying to find out!"

"Don't worry about what you're going to have to do just yet. First I have to explain The Rules to you."

"The rules?"

"Yes, The Rules."

He pauses. Time passes. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls.

"The rules?" I ask again.

"Yes, The Rules."

Hmm... the rules.


	10. Chapter 7b

The Do's & Don'ts? The Rules? What's this control freak narcicist going to call them next? The Ten Commandments?

"I also call them the Ten Commandments," he says handing me several sheets of paper and a potato.

"What's with the potato?" I ask him.

"What potato?"

Hmm... the Ten Commandments.

Unlike Moses, he's oblivious to the burning bush. I can't believe it, over a hundred pages in, and I _still_ haven't seen any action.

I look at the cover sheet. At the top is Christian's company's logo. A cross. But instead of a crucified Overlord Xenu in Galactic Prison, the one being crucified is a winking Christian Grey himself. And with one loose hand, he's offering-not salvation-but a shiny new penny.

Underneath are two words written in a foreign language. Latin perhaps?

_iamsam samiam_

I don't understand the significance. Or the symbolism. But I do understand I'm hungry.

"Before I go through this..." he says, indicating the contract, "...with you, I just want you to know that you don't have to do this. You're free to leave at any time, no hard feelings."

_No hard feelings?_ _So what else is new?_

He goes on: "I'll call Crockett. He'll be more than happy to take you home and put a bullet in your head."

Just as I eye the potato for immediate ingestion, he casually takes it from my hand.

_Dang that Christian Grey! How does he know?_

He places the raw root in the front pocket of his pants, giving him a nice bulging effect that Kate likes to call the "nice bulging effect."

My thoughts are swirling in my head like flies around an unwashed _chimichanga._ I have butterflies in my stomach. I hope Christian doesn't notice them missing from his collection. I'm so _confused._

"Can I have that potato back?" I ask him.

"What potato?"

_That Christian Grey! That Christian Grey! Oh, how I hate that Christian Grey. He wants to talk, I want to play. Oh, how I hate that Christian Grey._

He removes the cover sheet and we go through the contract line by line.

He asks me, "Will you do it on that bed..." and he points to the bed in question, as if there are any other beds. What does he take me for? An idiot? "...you idiot?"

I answer him, "I will do it on that bed."

"Will you do it on your head?"

"I will do it on that bed. I will do it on my head. I will do it all, you'll see. And I will do it all for free."

"Will you do it in this room? Will you do it very soon?"

"I will do it in this room, and I will do it very soon, and I will do it on that bed, and I will do it on my head. I will do it all, I swear. And I will do it all with flair."

"Will you surrender yourself to me? Will you surrender willingly?"

"I will surrender myself to you. Willingly? That's what I do. And I will do it in this room, and I will do it very soon. And I will do it on that bed, and I will do it on my head. There is nothing that I won't do, as long as I do it all for you."

"Will you do it and beg me please? Will you beg me, 'Please, with cheese'?"

"I will do it and beg you please. I'll even beg you 'please, with cheese.' I will surrender myself to you. Thrillingly, fillingly, willingly, too. In this room, and very soon. In this bed, and on my head. All these things, I swear I'll do. All these things, and others, too."

"Will you promise not to tell? Will you promise not to smell?"

"I wouldn't, couldn't ever smell. My hygiene's good. I wash with gel. And I will keep my lips closed tight. Unless, of course, they're nudged just right. I'll egg and beg you 'please, with cheese,' and sweet surrender willingly."

"Like a brain-washed Limbaugh manatee?"

"Like a mind-numbed robot chimpanzee. And I will do it on that bed. And I will do it on my head. And I will do it in this roomie, with an itchie hitchie gitchie goomie. Just, please, let's do it very soonie. Let's bip and bop and bang and boomie. Yes, I will do all that you say. And I'll do YOU, my Christian Grey."

Christian eyes me intently.

"I think we're ready to take this to the next level," he finally says, reaches into his pant pocket and pulls something out and offers it to me.

_OMG! What can it be? A ring? So soon?_

"Here," he says. "Have a potato."


End file.
